


We Dream of Making Our Escape

by Chash



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, F/M, Magic-Users, Past Character Death, Sabriel Fusion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-24
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-05-16 01:29:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5808037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Chash/pseuds/Chash
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clarke Griffin, the new Abhorsen, finds a man on the prow of a ship and decides to save him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Dream of Making Our Escape

**Author's Note:**

  * For [feminist14er](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feminist14er/gifts).



> TRUE STORY: Sabriel is an awesome book with a tooooooooon of amazing world-building, and you should definitely read it, because I did not want to rehash all of it, and instead just put no effort into making this an AU that's going to make sense if you haven't read the book. So, just FYI, I really glossed over a lot of plot and did not explain a lot of things. Be warned!
> 
> And, you know, happy birthday to feminist14er, I hope it is a great one :D

If Lexa were here, she would probably tell Clarke not to do it. But Clarke is alone when she finds the boat, alone when she inspects the young man carved onto the prow, alone when she realizes what he must be.

She has very little experience with young men; she knows she met some, before she went to boarding school, but it's been so long she barely remembers them. Some of the other girls, the day girls, would bring back stories of boys, like traders from a foreign land, and Clarke hadn't known quite how to feel about it. She was curious about men, their big hands and hard chests, but she liked soft skin and hidden touches too. If she'd never met a man in her life, she wouldn't lack for companionship or pleasure.

But there's something about him that draws her eye.

The differences between him and the other figureheads become more stark the more she looks at him. She can see individual hairs in each curl on his head, slight discolorations in the wood for the freckles covering his skin. Her fingers trace a small dent on his lip, a scar, before her eyes trail down to a firm chest, tight stomach, and--

She forces her eye to continue down. He's naked, and she makes herself inspect his penis, his thighs, his legs, clinical, comparing them to illustrations she's seen. It's all perfect, so lifelike, and he looks as if he might be on the verge of running off the boat, running toward something Clarke can't see, something that he cares about desperately.

If Lexa were here, she would probably urge caution, or at least tell Clarke she was being stupid. But Lexa has wandered off, so Clarke walks into Death to try and find him.

It doesn't work.

She slumps onto the ground next to the boat, frustrated with herself. This is why Lexa is wrong; she's not the Abhorsen. She can't even get a boy out of a ship, how is she supposed to bind the Dead or stop whatever it is that her father was fighting?

"A kiss is traditional," Lexa says, a surprise at her side.

Clarke glares at her. "What?"

"If you want to wake him up, you have to kiss him."

"I'm not kissing him."

"Then he's not waking up."

She glances back up at the young man; she's at a bad angle, because all she can really see is his--waist area. "You think I should?" she finally asks. She was expecting Lexa to tell her it was a waste of time or stupid or anything else. She didn't think Lexa would care about this at all.

"You've already done most of the work," says the creature, licking one of her paws, like she's a real cat, and not--well, Clarke still isn't sure what Lexa is, besides being made of Free Magic. But she's no cat. "You should finish what you start."

Clarke stands back up, regards the man again. It's not as if she's never kissed anyone before. She's never kissed a man, and never kissed anything made of wood, but it does seem stupid to just leave him at this point, especially for a silly reason like squeamishness. 

She has to start saving people at some point.

"A kiss," she says, and leans in to press her mouth to the wood.

A part of her wasn't really expecting anything to happen. She's done plenty of magic before, but she doesn't know anything about turning men into wood carvings, and it's not like she trusts Lexa, so she couldn't be sure it would work. Lexa might have just wanted to trick her into kissing a figurehead, for her own reasons. She might have thought it was funny.

But the wood melts away, giving way to warm skin, and Clarke only has a second to be amazed before he practically crushes her falling off the prow of the ship.

"Well done, Abhorsen," says Lexa, and Clarke glares at her.

He's awake when she gets back from finding food, and mostly dressed. Her clothes don't exactly fit him, but he seems to have found others, and he looks--honestly, he looks confused and exhausted, which she supposes is understandable. Clarke has no idea how long he had been frozen, but any amount of time trapped like that would be disconcerting, to say the least.

His eyes are brown and not quite focused when he looks up at her; she can see his freckles and his scar, the curls of his hair looking soft now. 

She's just as glad the rest of him is covered.

"Abhorsen," he says, struggling to his feet.

"Clarke," she corrects. "And you are?"

"No one."

"Not much of a name."

His mouth twitches, just slightly. "Bellamy," he says. His voice is deep and rich, a little rusty.

She nods. "Bellamy. Do you know who put you in there?"

"No." He wets his lips. "I don't remember anything."

"But you still decided I was the Abhorsen," she grumbles. She's _not_ ; her father is still alive. And even if he wasn't, she's barely eighteen, a schoolgirl raised outside of the Old Kingdom, not a--she doesn't even know what the Abhorsen _is_ , not really. She doesn't know enough, and Bellamy apparently doesn't know anything. And Lexa knows everything, but refuses to start.

They could be a comedy troupe.

"You are the Abhorsen," he says. "I recognize the bandolier and the coat."

"That's remembering something," she says. "And you know your name."

"I know _a_ name," he says. "I'm just assuming it's mine."

"Great," she says. "You hungry?"

He's quiet through the meal, pokes at the food and answers her questions with monosyllables. Lexa is asleep in a beam of sunlight, and Clarke wants to murder them both. It's easy to dream of grand adventures when you're at school, away from real magic and real danger, when you're a girl and your father isn't trapped in Death.

When she'd dreamed of those adventures, she had stalwart companions who would follow her through thick and thin, not an asshole magical cat and a man who might as well _still_ be made of wood, for all the conversation he's offering.

But it does get better, slowly. Bellamy _does_ remember how to get out of the sinkhole where he was entombed, and he stays with her, which she can't be upset about, in spite of everything. She needs allies, and there aren't a lot of candidates presenting themselves.

He proves to be a capable fighter too, intelligent and good at reading her. They made a good team, dispatching one of the lesser Dead in a small fishing village without even needing words. He talks to her more, not about himself, but just--talks. He asks about Ancelstierre and her school, and he seems interested in the answers.

"I almost never left Belisaere," he says, by way of explanation. His memory seems to be coming back in patches, but he's still not very inclined to talk about it. "I was always curious about the other side of the Wall."

"They don't believe in magic."

He goggles at her. "How do you not believe in magic?" he asks. "It's-- _how_?"

Clarke laughs. "They don't have it. Their Dead die and stay dead."

He shakes his head, unable to imagine it. "So how did you learn all this?"

"My father picked a school where they could teach me. The school was close to the Wall, and I think the magic bled through. They taught magic to those of us with an affinity. The girls who came from farther away, they--it was like a story to them. Nothing real." She cocks her head. "What's Belisaere like?"

"I have no idea what it's like now," he says, eyes dropping to the ground. He thinks it's been almost two hundred years, since he was imprisoned, and Clarke doesn't press him about that. She doesn't have many friends, but she can't imagine waking up and finding they were all lost. She can't blame him for not wanting to talk about that. "It used to be--boring."

"Boring?"

He's quiet again, but Clarke recognizes it as the quiet that comes when he's picking his words. He's _deliberate_ , she's been realizing, not dull or boring. "I was a royal guard," he says. "So I was more involved with--this. Necromancers and Free Magic. But I just heard about it, mostly. I used to guard--" His breath falters, and she sees him steeling himself. "The Princess Octavia. She didn't have much of a gift for Charter Magic, so I didn't have to go out much. But I knew what it was like outside the city. Most people didn't."

"And you're a good fighter," she says. "You must have gotten some practice."

He flashes her a grin, bright and unexpected. He doesn't smile often, but Clarke thinks he should. "Thanks." The expression fades again. "Like I said, I was guarding the princess. If I wasn't a good fighter, I wouldn't have been able to protect her. So I was a good fighter."

Clarke nods, swallows hard, looking down at her feet as she walks. "Did you--it sounds like the two of you were close."

On her shoulders, Lexa huffs out a cat laugh, and Clarke tsks at her. She knows Lexa isn't a normal cat, but if she's going to act like one, Clarke is going to treat her accordingly. "Yes, you _were_ close to the princess, weren't you?" says Lexa, and Clarke feels her blood run cold.

It's just--if he had someone, a lover or someone close to a lover, it must hurt even more. She feels bad for him. That's why her heart hurts.

"I protected her," Bellamy says, gruff, and turns back to the ocean, looking out at something Clarke can't see.

"He was _talking to me_ ," she hisses at Lexa. "Be nice."

"I was just asking," says Lexa, smug. She knows exactly who Bellamy is, and she's not sharing. Clarke would strangle her, if she thought it would do any good.

They arrive in Belisaere in the late afternoon, and it seems to still be boring after two hundred years. Clarke doesn't understand how they haven't been massacred, not until they hear about the curfew. 

"You were so _offended_ ," Bellamy teases.

"They wouldn't deserve to have a city if they didn't have better security procedures," Clarke mutters, but she's smiling too. 

"They haven't had a real ruler for two hundred years," he says. It's obviously not a coincidence that the monarchy fell apart right after he was imprisoned, but he hasn't told her the story yet.

She trusts he will.

The inn is a relief, after days of walking and sailing and fighting. She sinks into a warm bath with more gratitude than she's felt for anything in years, letting the warmth wash over her. 

She's letting her hand trail up her side to her breast, idle, thinking of taking advantage of warmth and privacy for a little stress relief when she hears a groan from next door, a splash, and the unmistakable sound of a man and a woman letting off their own stress, and suddenly the water feels much colder.

It's not as if Bellamy _isn't_ allowed to find companionship. If he's heartbroken over his princess, he probably wants to forget about her. And he won't have much of a chance for it after this. It's perfectly reasonable. 

His business, not hers.

She finishes up quickly, tries not to hear the grunts and moans from next door, tries not to wonder what they're doing. She knows the mechanics of men and women together, and there's nothing she's done with women that he couldn't do. He could have his head between the stranger's legs, drawing pleasure out of her, before he slides inside her, and--

"Bellamy wants the bath," Lexa observes.

Clarke startles. "How long have you been there?" she demands.

"It was boring downstairs. He's just drinking and finding out about local history." She licks her paw. "He said he doesn't have a bath in his room, so he wants to borrow yours."

"Well, go tell him he can have it in a few minutes," Clarke says, feeling a grin spread on her face.

"Why don't you tell him yourself?"

"Maybe I want privacy."

"Maybe I don't care."

Clarke splashes the cat, grins when she hisses and scampers out of the room.

She settles back in the bath, slides her hand between her legs, and thinks of having Bellamy _there_ , his mouth on _her_ , not some unknown woman, his thick fingers inside her, her fingers tangled in his hair, and feels so, so, _so_ much better.

"All yours," she tells him, bright, when she sees him downstairs. He's sitting at the bar, _reading_ , apparently unaware that the bartender is smiling at him.

"Hm?" he asks, offering her a small smile of his own.

"The bath," she says. "Go ahead, it's all yours. I'll get some food to your room?"

"Oh. Thanks." He scrubs his hand through his hair, makes a face. "I feel like I haven't washed off in about two hundred years."

Clarke laughs. "Weird."

"Right? Get a lot of food."

The bartender watches him go, and then raises her eyebrows at Clarke, almost an invitation. Clarke grins back. "Just the food, thanks," she says. "We've got a lot to do."

It's even less of a lie than she thought. The next day is like something out of a nightmare: finding the tomb where the royal line--Bellamy's _family_ \--died, walking into Death to drag her father out, only for him to have to die again, taking the monster with him, and fleeing, desperately, unbelievably, into the air.

"You're a prince," she remarks, unsure what else to say. They're on their way to Ancelstierre, in a flying machine brought by a pair of twins who can see the future, because her father told her that's where the body they need to destroy is buried. Clarke isn't thinking about it too hard, because at least they're in the air and they have a plan. She has to trust the twins and her father; she doesn't have any other options.

Clarke is flying, so Bellamy is behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist, his chest warm against her back. She kissed him too, to keep him alive. Biting his lip so he'd taste blood and life. It was good, the right thing to do, it kept him here, but--it still feels selfish. She's kissed him twice, to save him, and she feels guilty for enjoying it. For being happy he's here. She can feel the steady beat of his heart against her back, when she concentrates, and it makes her feel like they might survive this.

"And the princess was--"

"My sister," he says. "Half sister. She was--the most important thing, my mother always taught me. And I couldn't protect her." He sighs, and leans closer, his head coming to rest against her shoulder. "I'm no prince, Clarke. My mother was the Queen, but I was--a mistake. Her youthful indiscretion. I wasn't ever going to be a ruler."

"You are now," she points out. "You're the only royal blood we have left. You have to do it."

"It's a bad idea," he says. "I'm not--I shouldn't. I don't know the first thing about being a king."

"I don't know that much more about being an Abhorsen." She presses her cheek against his temple, brief. "I bet we can figure it out together."

"If we survive this," he says, but his arm tightens around her. "Together."

She doesn't have much time to think about it, after that. They have a necromancer's body to find and destroy, and a battle they have to win to do it. Clarke has duties, as the Abhorsen, and Bellamy has them as--a prince, or a guard, or a friend. Whatever he is, he's sworn to protect her, and he does. They both fight like demons, and they both--

She's most of the way to dead herself when she realizes he _isn't_. That he was hurt, and hurt badly, in the battle, but she would have felt him crossing into Death, and she didn't.

His voice is the first thing she hears when she wakes, his hand around hers the first thing she feels. "Come on, Clarke. We're doing this together," he says, his fingers so tight on her hand she almost wants him to let go. "There's no way I can rebuild a kingdom by myself. I need you."

"You're supposed to kiss me," she manages. "That's how I always get you back."

She can't open her eyes yet, but she hears him laugh, and then there's the press of his mouth against hers, firm and warm, pulling her all the way back into the world of the living. "Twice," he murmurs. "You've done it twice. That's not _always_."

"I think I'm probably going to have to save you a few more times," she says. She gets her eyes open, takes him in, battered and dirty, but smiling at her, _alive_. She tangles her hand in his hair, pulls him back down to kiss him again. "We've got a lot of work to do. It's going to be dangerous."

"I'm glad you're already planning on saving my life." His tone is teasing, but she knows it's true. "Do you think you're ready to get off the floor, Abhorsen?"

"Don't call me that," she says. 

"Clarke." The way he says it, it sounds like _I love you_ , so maybe he _should_ call her Abhorsen. When they're in company. "We're not done. The soldiers are cleaning up, the students are scared--they need you."

"Us," she says. She struggles up, lets him help her up. "They need us. Together, right?"

"Together," he agrees, and that's how they stand, how they give orders, how they clean up the mess that the Dead have made.

It's how they rebuild, and it's the only way she ever wants to be.


End file.
